


the makings of an anniversary

by vicariously kingly (pelted)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: M/M, canon compliant... so. sadness, tiny introspection piece
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:27:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27033409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pelted/pseuds/vicariously%20kingly
Summary: There reached a point where tradition became insult. Emet-Selch had hit that point a few good thousand years prior to meeting the Warrior of Light and Exarch.
Relationships: Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Hythlodaeus/Warrior of Light - Implied
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	the makings of an anniversary

**Author's Note:**

> spoilers for Shadowbringers up to 5.3!
> 
> based on the "light / dark" prompt for emet/wol week, only hyth and g'raha are there too because i am soft of heart and can't leave them out.

. . .

_light_

The days following Hades’ accession to the Thirteenth Seat passed too quickly for him to keep track.

Somewhere in the middle of the second year, the Fourteenth vacated her spot to retire permanently to the countryside. By the start of the third, Hades’ good friend Helios had been nominated to take the seat. After a little debate of no import, he took on Azem’s mantle and mask. For several years thereafter, his duty called him far and wide to make himself known to the people as the newest Azem.

Occasionally, Hades received a postcard featuring this-or-that city, and this-or-that village, and this-or-that nomadic group. Sometimes, Helios wrote a note or two about why Hades should visit that particular place. More often, he simply circled in thick black lines the oh-so-interesting cite on the postcard’s front, with anywhere between three and six exclamation points to let Hades know it was _really_ exciting.

As his work kept him all but tied to his desk, he unfortunately had no chance to join Helios in any such adventurous places as Midgarite’s Eighth Heaven or the _Bone Village._ He tried to send letters back. As Azem constantly moved, most returned to sender.

On the eve of Hades’ fourth year as Emet-Selch, Hythlodaeus threw him a surprise anniversary party. It started in the morning, and lasted all day.

It very much interrupted his work.

“You can’t possibly deny that you’re married to your job,” Hythlodaeus told him, nabbing him by the arm just after he left his apartment complex and dragging him off toward the bustling downtown, “and that it has been treating you absolutely awfully as of late! It’s time for you to take a step back and re-evaluate your future with it. Just for a day. I cleared your calendar and made certain everyone knew to save their crises for tomorrow. Once we’re finished for the day, you can crawl back into its cold, cruel embrace...”

“-- Is that why you refused your nomination?” Hades demanded, disgruntled at having his schedule so incredibly interrupted (but, at the same and deep, deep down, quietly relieved).

“That would be quite cruel of _me_ to willfully inflict upon _you_ , my dear friend,” Hythlodaeus gasped, full of faux affront. “-- But, yes, it is. It definitely is. Anyway, come along! We will be late! I’ve a reservation we simply can’t miss.”

“And where is that?” Hades asked, deciding to humor him.

“That little cafe you like, with the chocolate scones.”

“The Hearth? They don’t take reservations.”

“It’s the funniest thing -- when I told them it was to celebrate their most loyal, coffee-addicted patron, they made an exception. Before you worry, they hadn’t needed me to invoke the ‘Thirteenth’ word. Even were you a lowly student yet again, I believe they would’ve happily agreed.”

That didn’t make sense, and he let Hythlodaeus know that very loudly. His friend happily heckled him back with such glee that, combined with his earnest determination to see this ‘surprise party’ through, Hades couldn’t bring himself to truly care about his motives. If the Hearth really was where they were headed, then the other’s planned gathering had to be small. Though he greatly enjoyed Amaurot’s hustle and bustle, and enjoyed even more the liveliness of a large group’s debate, a bit of him hoped the group to be smaller than small. Actually, a day between Hythlodaeus and himself sounded just fine. It would be nice to shed Emet-Selch’s mask and simply be Hades for a day.

It turned out that the Hearth was where they were headed. There, they picked up a large bag of fresh chocolate scones and two cups of steaming coffee that Hythlodaeus had ordered ahead of time, which was what Hythlodaeus claimed he meant by _reservation._ They then lingered at a table for some time, as the Hearth wasn’t exceedingly popular and often had free seating (which that convenience was a big part of why Hades frequented it). After they had their fill of the scones, Hythlodaeus divulged his plan to take Hades to the local park, as it was set to have an art gallery of sorts set up and he knew Hades enjoyed those. As that would last all day, however, they first chatted a while, catching each other up on everything _except_ work, as that topic was -- according to Hythlodaeus -- firmly banned. 

To Hades’ surprise, they had a lot to catch up on even though they met quite frequently in and out of work, including sleeping over at each other’s apartments. The difference was, Hythlodaeus had kept in contact with their older friends and had plenty of updates about them to share with Hades, who definitely hadn’t kept up as well as he would’ve liked.

While they chatted, Hythlodaeus kept fiddling with his near-white coffee’s stir-stick. Then its paper label. Then his own sleeve.

By the time he started picking at _Hades’_ then-empty coffee cup, Hades set his elbows upon the table and leaned forward. Interrupting their meandering conversation about bygone Akadaemia days, he asked, “Alright. What has you so nervous?”

“Nervous? _Me?_ ” Hythlodaeus protested immediately, putting one hand to his chest with exaggerated indignation. “I don’t know the meaning of the word! And I’ve certainly no idea what gave you the idea that it may apply to me.”

Hades squinted at him. 

Hythlodaeus put his hands up, palms out. “T-truly! There’s no need to look so closely at me… Do you believe me untrustworthy?”

“Not in _general_ ,” he tapped a finger against his chin, deciding whatever Hythlodaeus hid, it couldn’t be too bad; thus he continued, teasingly, “but in specific? Always.”

Hythlodaeus blustered and flustered about that accusation. Just as he threatened to abandon Hades in the midst of his own anniversary day, however, he checked his phone and gave an aborted, _oh! hm!_ chirp of surprise.

When Hades asked what it was, again leaning forward to peer across the table, Hythlodaeus gracelessly dodged the question, stood, and made bid for them both to return at once to Hades’ apartment.

“But what of the gallery in the park--?” Hades asked, feigning ignorance as to Hythlodaeus’ rush.

“There will certainly be more of those!” Hythlodaeus said, grabbed his arm, and all but dragged him out the cafe’s door. As they departed, Hades barely got in his usual thank-you to the host.

On the outside, Hades’ apartment looked exactly as it had when they left, if a bit brighter for the noon-day sun. That was somewhat surprising, as a last-minute change in a party-plan had been Hades’ foremost guess as to why they needed to rush.

But then, it was unusual for Hythlodaeus to tip his hand so easily… It must have been a big change in plans.

So Hades quietly believed and thought on as they clambered into his apartment complex’s elevator and took it back to his place. Hythlodaeus led the way, fishing his spare key to Hades’ room from a pocket and making every move possible to ensure Hades was blocked from reaching the door before him.

Rushed as he was, he missed the keyhole twice before finally getting it in. Unlocking with a happy bop of his head, he put a hand on the doorknob and then looked back to stare at Hades.

Hades stared back a moment, one eyebrow raised behind his mask.

“You’re acting very strange,” Hades informed him, when he continued to hesitate.

That seemed to be the cue Hythlodaeus had been waiting for, as he immediately denied it with a, “Hardly!” and then, finally, opened the door. He then pushed it open, and gestured for Hades to go first.

Hades again narrowed his eyes at him, but he was amused enough (and used to Hythlodaeus’ more fae moods) to go along with the plan. 

Once he’d gotten his fill of standing at the threshold and squinting at Hythlodaeus -- which, to Hades’ amusement, made the usually unflappable Hythlodaeus quite nervous, the edges of apprehension radiating off of him to brush against Hades’ awareness -- he clicked his tongue in fake disapproval, turned his attention to his apartment, and went in.

As expected, the inside of his apartment was not exactly as he’d left it.

Unexpectedly, the reason wasn’t a bunch of themed decorations or messy, colorful confetti. It wasn’t even an overly large cake with a peculiar function.

Instead, it was Helios. Clad in only a pair of trousers, he froze in the middle of the living room upon Hades’ entry. 

The two locked eyes for a single heartbeat’s worth of time. Then Helios gave a shout of, “Hades! It’s been so long!” and bounded across the room to sweep him up into a tight, bruising hug.

“Why are you only wearing trousers?!” Hades demanded, even as he returned the hug. “Where is your robe?”

“It’s a whole thing-- okay, so, to start, Hythlodaeus told me to surprise you, but I couldn’t decide what I wanted to surprise you with! Then I did decide -- it was going to be a dhamel! And I would’ve said, ‘hello down there’ with the head piece sticking out of the window, while you two were on the sidewalk, and-- oh, dhamels are these creatures that- well, anyway, it would’ve been very funny. Except then you two came back faster than I thought you would, so I hadn’t made the costume in time--”

“We were supposed to meet at the park!” Hythlodaeus said then, stepping in and (thankfully) closing the door. “That was the plan.”

“A park? Which park?”

“The one with the featured artists.”

“So _that’s_ what you meant with the art comment… I was a little confused.”

“What did you think I meant?”

“That we were the art? Now that I say that aloud, that doesn’t make sense.” Helios finally loosened his grip around Hades, instead taking him by the shoulders and holding him an arm’s length away, as if to get a better look at him. “It doesn’t matter. I’m glad you’re here!”

“I sure hope I would be. This is my home,” Hades replied, taking off his mask and floating it to its place on a stand by the door. Helios grinned as he did, cupping a hand around the back of his neck and pulling him in to knock their foreheads together-- _clumsily_ , as the force made Hades wince. With it came a jolt of pure joy wrapped in relief-relaxed-playful, which soothed the ache instantly (not that Hades would let on about that, since it was a prime time to tease Helios about how little he knew his own strength). “Ouch.”

“Ah,” Helios pulled back again, “sorry, it’s been a while.”

“It certainly has,” Hades complained, rubbing at his forehead. Just as Helios began to look truly concerned, however, Hades dropped the put-upon act and pulled him again into a tight hug. “Truly, _I’m_ glad that _you’re_ here. It’s been-- what, a year?”

“More than,” Helios mumbled into his shoulder. “Thank Hythlodaeus for reminding me of this-- not that I would have forgotten your anniversary! But work, it’s never-ending, and…”

“It’s fine.” Hades rubbed at his back. His bare back. His… unusually bumpy bare back-- “-- Do you have a _scar?_ What in the world is that from?”

“A bad choice or two?” Hythlodaeus asked, trying to keep it light.

“Or five, all in a row. Ah, my friends, I’ve so many stories to share,” Helios laughed. Hades reluctantly let him go as he pulled back again. He stuck nearby as Helios gave Hythlodaeus the same hug-and-forehead-tap treatment, the two snickering as their noses bumped too. 

It made for quite the happy scene. Hades would have to thank Hythlodaeus, indeed. Now that he was reminded of time’s swift passage, he realized just how long it had been since they’d all seen each other both in person and outside of work. 

They’d have to make the most of it.

To begin… 

“You need a robe,” Hades said, ignoring how Helios slung an arm over both his and Hythlodaeus’ shoulders as if to show off just how well-muscled, sunkissed and not-clothed he was. “I’ve a spare in my room. Give me one moment of leave, and--”

“-- Do you truly need a robe?” Hythlodaeus asked Helios, in the light, oh-so-innocent tone of voice that let Hades know he was absolutely not going to get that robe onto Helios within the next few hours. “Are you cold? We could warm up on the couch.”

“The couch sounds perfect,” Helios responded, straight-faced even as Hades rolled his eyes, “and the robe singularly unnecessary. Doesn’t the couch sound perfect, Hades?”

“I suppose,” he said, “though I’ll need to fetch a quilt from the linen closet--”

“Who has a _linen closet?_ ” Helios cried. “Are you old now?”

“Who has scars that they keep?”

“It’s a reminder of the adventure!”

“Who calls work an ‘adventure--’”

“-- Was that with the demogorgon? I recall reading that one gave you some trouble,” Hythlodaeus said, eager. “Really, I’ve been looking forward to hearing your tales of the world as they truly are, rather than through your dry reports to the Administrative Bureau.” 

“They’re only dry because I’m restricted to extremely specific words to describe the events, with the check-boxes and everything-- the real stories are much better!”

As Helios nudged them both in the couch’s direction, Hades pretended to drag his feet by harping on the need for popcorn and a quilt only because once they reached that couch, he planned not to get up for the better part of the afternoon. They needed to welcome Helios back for however long he could stay. Hopefully, it would be a long time, as much as they could spare… 

Truly, how _had_ a year passed so quickly? It made no sense.

.

.

.

_dark_

. . .

The days crawled by so slowly, Emet-Selch could hardly keep track. 

Time stretched itself into an endless, unmemorable line. Rare was a life he recalled with any peculiar attachment, let alone a moment.

Shrouded with a _notice-me-not_ glamour, Emet-Selch sat himself at the edge of the Crystarium’s open-air bar. People’s eyes skidded off him, too enraptured with their own conversations and celebrations to pierce his minor magics. After a hundred years -- a hundred years! not one among them had known the stars beyond their blighted Light-drenched sky -- the night had returned to their area. So massive was the shift in their day-to-day in consequence, the dark’s return was all they wished to discuss. Never before had their kind so loved the night, and never again would they, considering how quickly they grew out of gratitude. The feat their Warrior had performed was actually borderline _impressive_ , and yet, within mere centuries, even were their world to survive, it would be forgotten.

And then they had the gall to wonder why they made the same mistakes again, and again, and again.

He watched them frolic about with the idle curiosity of utmost boredom. Chin propped into a palm, elbow digging into the tabletop’s plainly polished surface, he waited… and waited… and waited--

Ah, there. 

The Warrior and the Exarch. One with a new infusion of Light, the other with a bounce in his step hitherto quite rare. The two targets that had proven themselves, out of everything else in the city if not the First, somewhat interesting-- and no less troublesome.

Worth watching, in other words.

Emet-Selch watched them ascend the bar’s steps and make their way to the host. There they ordered drinks which were, by the Warrior’s small smile and the Exarch’s humble refusals, certainly on the house. That prompted a lively conversation between the two, which ended with the Exarch carrying both frothy mugs while the Warrior flung an easy arm across his robed shoulders.

The two took their drinks to a table three down from Emet-Selch’s. While they didn’t seem to notice him, he was fairly sure their paranoia would clue them into his presence if he ventured too close. 

Also, he didn’t much feel like getting up.

In any case, improving his auditory ability was a minor spell. That gave him a direct line into their conversation-- which proved to be startlingly banal. 

The night sky was, of course, the main topic. Just before Emet-Selch began nodding off at its back-and-forth congratulations, the Exarch brought up that a number of the townspeople wanted to make the day a holiday. 

“It would mark the first day that the Flood’s tide truly turned,” he said.

“I had heard there was another holiday around now…” the Warrior replied thoughtfully, his head tilting as his eyes drifted away from the other.

“Is there?” 

“... Something about the Tower’s arrival?”

The Exarch hummed, noncommittal, and took a drink from his mug. In other words, he stalled.

The Warrior would not be daunted. He leaned across the table, reaching out and pointing in accusation at the Exarch. The Exarch leaned away from his efforts, sputtering slightly.

The Warrior declared, “You should have told me!”

“Pray forgive me, but at the time, you were attending matters in Eulmore,” the other protested. “I was hardly going to call you back early for a minor festival.”

“I would have brought you a celebratory item!”

“Do you mean a ‘gift?’” the Exarch said (or, more probably, teased).

“Like an anniversary gift, yes.”

“You brought back the night-sky, I think that gift enough.”

“But that was for everyone. I’d have liked to bring one just for you.”

The Warrior sighed hugely, then straightened himself and considered the Exarch closely. The Exarch seemed to sweat slightly under the other’s regard, though Emet-Selch was sure the Warrior didn’t notice.

At last, the Warrior stood from the table and motioned the Exarch up, too. He said, in as few words as ever, “Stand.”

While voicing his plain confusion, the Exarch did.

The Warrior promptly rounded the table and wrapped him up in a hug. It looked quite firm, if not borderline painful.

“Wha--?” the Exarch begin, a clear (and surprisingly clear-voiced) protest.

The Warrior hushed him, mumbling something too low for Emet-Selch to catch. Whatever it was, it inspired the Exarch to both hug him back and not move a muscle. Impressive, considering how reserved the Exarch liked to be in public.

They lingered like that for much longer than necessary. Finally the Warrior pulled back, put his hands upon the other’s shoulders, and -- in a move the Exarch clearly wasn’t expecting -- pressed his forehead to the other’s hooded one. 

The Exarch stumbled back, his hands flying to press at his forehead.

The Warrior stumbled after him, startled. “Oh-- was that too rough?”

“No, no, it was just-- er- surprising! And I... thought you were trying to take my hood off...!” the Exarch lied, a strained note in his voice.

Quiet laughter took over the Warrior as he caught the Exarch’s shoulder and steadied him. The good cheer was infectious, apparently, especially as the Warrior admitted that he didn’t know what came over him, but that he’d wanted to make sure the other knew just how glad he was that someone like the Exarch was with the Tower, and not-- eh, he didn’t know- a greedy fool, or Xande himself, or any other disastrous choice.

Whatever the Exarch had to say to that, Emet-Selch didn’t care to know.

He left. He had other business he could attend to. Clearly, these two were engaged in nothing of import.

_That moment_ stuck in his mind and distracted him for the rest of the slow, never-ending day. No matter how he analyzed it -- no matter how he turned it this way or that, no matter its context or its clues -- he couldn’t think of why. There had been nothing especial about their interaction. Nothing even vaguely related to the current circumstances or Emet-Selch’s duties.

Whatever the reason, ruminating upon it left him hollowed-out and distinctly gloomy. 

How annoying.

Because his instincts were generally and unfortunately good, he buried it deep in his memories, granting it a begrudging spot next to the other sparse facts that made the two somewhat promising. It was a short list, but that it was a list at all set them slightly above their contemporaries.

In the midst of worrying at this inconsequential thing, he found himself wondering, _When have I lasted celebrated an anniversary? Not as another, but as myself?_

Anniversaries were for celebrating the past. Even as he kept working toward the future, he remembered and appreciated the past quite well. Far better than others, in fact. He didn’t need a special time or day or trip to a specific food establishment to mark its passing. It was ever-passing, ever-consuming, ever-motivating. It was the hearth by which he warmed his hands and heart, lest he fall prey to despair.

Though, there had been that anniversary with Hythlodaeus and Azem, back when Emet-Selch had called him Helios. It had been his third-- no- his fifth year on the Thirteenth Seat? Somewhere close to that. It had been a quiet affair, but memorable for its peace…

That had been nice. 

Very nice. That had been an anniversary worth keeping, not because of its cause but for its company...

(Every time he pulled himself from his warm memories -- to check on Vauthry’s plans, to observe the Scion’s whereabouts, to remember he had a physical form to take care of -- the present remained as broken and cold as ever.

The day passed with heavy, dragging steps, shrouded in the meaningless night that the Crystarium’s people had so gleefully welcomed back.)


End file.
